


turn to wax and melt like this

by loghain



Category: In the Flesh (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hand Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-17
Updated: 2014-05-17
Packaged: 2018-01-25 11:08:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1646426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loghain/pseuds/loghain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“...she loves you, Kieren. She feels horrible for shutting you out, for not letting you near me.” A soft pause. “For not letting me near you.” Simon exhales open-mouthed and kisses him again, like he’s been starving for this, and then reigns back in his control, stepping back, hands retreating to his sides.  // A jossed-by-canon porn fic, written in the interim between episodes two and three.</p>
            </blockquote>





	turn to wax and melt like this

There’s a silent agreement on a hands-off policy until Amy comes around. It’s fair enough; they both hurt her, although Kieren doesn’t know which of them did the worst damage. The time he doesn’t get to see Simon he spends working on the things that matter - like inching towards the six-month service goal and praying it isn’t a scam, and keeping Jem company. When he can he tries to make it up to Amy. But she’s frosty. He understands it.

But he misses Simon. He hates that he got flustered fast enough by the disciple to actually miss him, made worse by the fact they see each other _all the fucking time_ , they just don’t talk. Roarton’s too small to avoid someone. Kieren looks since he can’t touch, though he never catches Simon looking back. He wishes he would.

When he starts to feel like his second life is becoming something of a joke, he goes to Rick’s grave. He thumbs into the soft soil around his grave marker and plants little flowers, hoping that he can encourage some life back into the place, although admittedly Roarton’s graveyards have probably seen too much life. He just wants Rick to rest in peace. “You’d think I’m a right nutter,” Kieren murmurs. “It’s been a month and I’m still thinking about it.” He trails off, blinking at the lettering of Rick’s name. He dares to voice the secret things they never really talked about, whispers, “Or maybe you wouldn’t. Reminds me a bit of the first time I kissed you.”

“Did you step on some poor girl’s toes then, too?”

Kieran spins awkwardly at the waist, planting his hands on the ground and looking at where Amy is stood between the rows of graves, smiling at him. The air feels lighter between them than it has in some time, than it has since Amy found Kieren’s coverup on Simon’s mouth. Kieren coughs, laughs in a shorty, jittery way. “No, uh. His dad hated me, though.”

Amy rolls her eyes. “You’re rubbish at makin’ things easy for yourself, Kieren Walker.”

Kieren shrugs ever so slightly and looks down at his hands. He knows. “I’m sorry, Amy.”

“I know, handsome.” She sounds a little defeated as she walks towards him, like maybe the distance has been as hard on her as it has been on him. She flops to the ground beside him, tucking her feet in so she’s not on anyone’s grave, and links her arm firmly in his, and leans against his shoulder. “I miss you, y’know. More than it’s worth to be mad at you or Simon. I even miss you two being around each other,” she gestures, the way that she does, all airy and free, “I mean, I did want you lot to like each other.”

“Just went a bit further than I meant it to,” Kieren says, and Amy hits his arm, lightly.

“Don’t go off like that. You don’t choose who you like.” She pauses. “But you could have a go sometimes at not sticking your tongue down his throat. He had so much cover-up on him I thought you’d tried to eat his face.”

That sends them both laughing, and Amy kisses Kieren on the cheek, sending a warm glow through him. “Come over for a bit of sheep’s brain and some movies tonight, okay? I don’t know the last time Simon actually watched anything on television but I’m starting to think all this disciple nonsense is rotting the fun from his brain. I wanna unwind with my two favourite boys.”

Kieren shows up at her house just as it’s getting dark, right when Amy told him to; she said something about the colours of dusk feeling like the right time to start consuming brains, and the pavement is golden-grey under his feet as he approaches the front door. He’s been floating so high on just getting Amy’s friendship back in full that he realises, belatedly, that this is the first time he will have spoken to Simon since what happened.

Kieren’s hand wavers in front of the door. Then he knocks. When it opens, he’s expecting Amy, in a whirlwind of skirts and hair and big dead eyes, but it’s Simon, with a knitted brow and his green turtleneck coiled up against his throat. He looks at Kieren for a long, silent moment, and Kieren feels like he’s looking right under all the cover-up and remembering how pallid Kieren’s skin really is.

Then he says, “Come in.”

Kieren smiles lightly and steps past him, anxiously playing with the zipper of his hoodie and craning his head, trying to be nosy without really being nosy. He turns back to Simon. “Where’s Amy?”

Simon closes the door and puts his hands in his pockets, the ragged sleeves of his sweater pushing up as they catch against other fabric. He’s amused, by the glint in his eye, by the tight slant of his mouth, the upwards tip of his chin. Kieren waits to be let in on the joke. “She’s not here, Kieren. She left about an hour ago telling me all about how she was going to go on an adventure in Roarton as the sun went down. I told her to be careful and she said, _I could say the same to you, Mr Disciple_.”

A laugh bubbles up out of Kieren’s chest, disbelief given voice. Simon takes a step towards Kieren so that he doesn’t have to be the first to move, and Kieren looks up at him, clarifies, “We’ve been set up?”

Simon smiles, then his expression changes, if only slightly - it becomes something deeper, catches Kieren’s attention like magnetism. His eyes are crinkly at the corners. “Do we really need setting up?”

He kisses Kieren. The hands-off policy is now, apparently, void; Simon is cupping Kieren’s face, thumb rubbing against his jaw as he leans down, fingertips pressing against the skin beneath his ears, drawing him in. Kieren staggers and then cranes towards Simon’s mouth, balling one fist in knitwear and feeling the other against the curve of Simon’s ribs.

Simon is the first to pull away, showing a restraint that Kieren feels he’s somewhat lacking - he looks down at Kieren, rubs a thumb over his cheek, smiles broadly, the kind of smile he doesn’t give a lot of people. Kieren has spent enough time looking at Simon to know that. Somewhere between the buzzing desire to kiss Simon again and the questions lurking in his mind, he notices the beige-y orange smears all over Simon’s mouth, and touches a hand gently to his own mouth, embarrassed.

Simon lifts his hands from Kieren’s skin and they’re similarly orange, and good natured he remarks, “I really hate this cover-up stuff, y’know.” He gives Kieren a long look and thumbs away some more of the cover-up. Kieren’s nerves batter around under his mottled skin, and he tries to look away. Instead, Simon chucks him gently under the chin, making him look up, and Simon says, “Hey. You’re just as alive with or without that stuff.”

Kieren doesn’t have an answer to that. He never has a defense when this comes up. He doesn’t know how to explain that he doesn’t want to be partially deceased, or a rotter, or undead, or redeemed. He cows under Simon’s long gaze, and changes the subject, licking his now-bare lips and saying, “I thought Amy wanted us to have a night in.” He clarifies, “The three of us. She told me she missed us.”

“She does,” Simon confirms. “I think this is her way of apologising.”

Kieren frowns. “She didn’t do anything wrong.”

“And we’ll tell her that,” Simon nods. “But she loves you, Kieren. She feels horrible for shutting you out, for not letting you near me.” A soft pause. “For not letting me near you.” Simon exhales open-mouthed and kisses him again, like he’s been starving for this, and then reigns back in his control, stepping back, hands retreating to his sides. He gestures. “Go on, let’s go through.”

Kieren takes the necessary steps into the living room, walking around the space for a moment. He hasn’t been inside Amy and Simon’s home for a long time. It doesn’t much look different but it feels different, like the air has changed, and Kieren feels weird that he hesitates before asking, “How’ve you been, Simon?”

It was probably a question that should’ve come before a transference of makeup and saliva. As if picking up on Kieren’s thoughts, Simon wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and then walks to the sofa, looking at Kieren from across the room. He sits down, leaning elbows on knees. “Same old,” he says. “Trying to make a life for myself and the undead in Roarton. But that Maxine Martin… she’s still not interested in anything that doesn’t tighten the handcuffs.”

Kieren nods. That much he gets. “I’ve been working the give-back scheme.” Then, “I haven’t seen you there for ages.” The tip-of-the-tongue question is lurking there, wondering if Simon has been more actively avoiding him than Kieren has.

“I wasn’t trying to keep out your way,” Simon responds, sensing the implication. “There’s better things to be done than glorified prison service.”

“Like what?"

Simon leans back. “Come sit by me.”

Kieren does as he’s bid. The sofa is small, squishy, putting him up immediately against Simon’s side, so Simon stretches an arm out behind him, and just like that they’re incredibly close, their thighs pressing a tight flat line together until Simon stretches that leg out. Kieren never realised how tall Simon was until he saw him sitting down for the first time, which had seemed so backwards, but it made sense; Simon has this bizarre posture, hunching his shoulders and swamping himself in heavy, massive clothes. His height only becomes apparent because knees stick up on the low furniture when he sits, forcing him to stretch them out if he’s intending to sit comfortably.

He only stretches the one out for now, though. He uses the other leg to help twist his body so that where they’re squashed up he can hold Kieren, kiss him again; between kisses Simon requests quietly, “Can I ask you somethin’, Kieren?”

An exhale. A kiss. An inhale. “Okay.” Kieran looks into Simon’s eyes, half-lidded as they regard Kieren with an electric kind of intent.

“What did you used to do with Rick?”

The question hits like a rubber reflux hammer to the sternum; dull and deep. Kieren swallows. It’s hard to think of Rick at a time like this, let alone what they did - “Kissing?” Simon looks at him expectantly, and Kieren finishes, a little sheepish, “Just kissing. Sometimes we’d get - “ Oh, _god_ , he can’t say ‘get hard’, not with Simon looking at him like that, so he just swallows, gestures with one hand and finishes lamely, “but we never did anything.” 

He wants to volunteer more information now that the floodgates of memory are open, wants to tell Simon about all the things him and Rick did, how it all compares, how he’s grown up, the ways that he hasn’t, the ways that Simon is so completely different to Rick, how Kieren sort of feels like he doesn’t even know how to kiss properly because it’s not tentative, not frightened, not stolen, but words catch and stick and clog up his throat, and anyway, Simon is leaning really close, nudging his nose against Kieren’s.

He puts a hand safely on Kieren’s knee, and his voice is low and quiet, just for his ears, “You tell me if you want me to stop, Kieren.” And then the hand creeps higher, and over, nudging his fingers down between Kieren’s legs to drag them up the inside of his thigh. Simon’s hand is warm even through Kieren’s jeans. The walk to this house had lowered Kieren’s temperature dramatically, but Simon, he’s been inside all day, wearing his knitwear. The undead don’t process warmth the way the living do.

“You okay?” Simon murmurs, and it’s all Kieren can do to nod breathlessly and kiss him. Simon chuckles against his mouth, and keeps sliding his hand up until he turns it and presses his palm down against Kieren’s crotch. He inhales, touching Simon’s chest, grasping his own thigh, not sure what else to do with his hands.

“Relax,” Simon gently insists, and Kieren is about to say something when instead he lets out a sharp little moan as Simon rolls the palm of his hand against Kieren’s cock. He moves his fingers and deftly flicks open the button on his jeans, but falters at the zip. “Give us a hand, would you?” 

And Kieren, probably too eagerly, gets his fly properly undone, at which point Simon’s hands are back in control, pulling at the edges of his jeans. Kieren is wearing purple zig-zag boxers, and Simon laughs, soft and rough, and says, “Cute undies” right before he gets them down enough to wrap his fingers around Kieren’s cock.

Kieren isn’t blind to how good a hand can feel, but as an act performed by someone else it somehow seems greater, feels more profound, pressing all the lines of his body that he can into Simon as he cants his hips up eagerly to feel Simon’s fingers sliding up and down his shaft. Maybe it’s because it’s Simon, too, who seems so keen to know and to keep Kieren.

If he could focus on thoughts outside of Simon’s mouth kissing up against his jaw and the way he sometimes stops the up-down of his hand to squeeze his fingers enough to make Kieren let out a little shaky noise, Kieren would probably consider how weird it is that the first time he does anything sexual is when he’s a zombie. Sorry, _partially deceased_. The odd thing is he feels so electric, nerve endings sparking up in a way they don’t normally, and he feels hot, though he’s not sure he actually is - he feels alive. Like, really alive.

Kieren belatedly notices that Simon is hard too, breathing a little heavier, legs just a tiny bit parted and at the apex his jeans are strained in a way that sends a deep, unknown sort of thrill through Kieren. Brave and head swimming, he touches him through clothing, hesitating before each tentative movement and squeeze of his hand. Simon says, “You don’t have to”, but his voice has gone a little dark and his accent slurs his words together more than it usually does, and Kieren not only doesn’t want to but feels like it would be unfair to stop. The high he’s getting off knowing Simon wants him gets to him in a way he didn’t expect, pushes his confidence as much as it makes him let out short moans at the right jolt of pleasure from Simon’s hand; he puts both hands on Simon, rucking up his sweater so that he can undo his jeans, and then Simon breathes, “Wait, wait.”

Kieren’s stomach drops a little, but Simon only moves to pull Kieren with him. It takes some awkward shuffling, but soon they’re not quite lying down, but tangled together none the less, over and under, Simon casting a shadow over Kieren that he would not be without. 

Kieren gets back to task. Undoes Simon’s jeans. Can’t come up with a clever quip about his boring grey boxers. He’s too busy thinking about he’s hard under those boxers, and before he can balk he pulls them down, and then, yeah, wow, they’re both touching each other, how about that.

The word _blimey_ comes to mind.

Their foreheads press together, and then their mouths. Kieren has vivid images between breathy noises that cover up is going to be everywhere, and is struck like a car into a wall by the realisation that bloody hell he doesn’t _care_. Not right now. How can he be self conscious right now, with Simon looking at him like he’s half devil, half miracle? He feels charged, intoxicated, animated, heat bubbling under his skin, arousal on its way to the tipping point coiling like a beast in his belly, and knowing that Simon is feeling something similar sends hot-cold spikes down his spine and encourages him in his ministrations.

It feels like someone takes a match to his skin when Simon moans, like actually moans, muffling it with his mouth pressed against Kieren’s shoulder. Simon inhales noisily, kisses Kieren, leans back and looks down on him whilst speeding up the jerk of his wrist. He’s watching Kieren’s reactions, comes the realisation, getting off on it as much as he’s getting off on their new hands-on policy. 

“You’re fantastic, Kieren,” he says, out of the blue, and Kieren is so taken aback by the frank admission that he freezes until Simon relaxes him with a biting kiss. No, not biting; more like… hungry.

Sex feels so much like consumption in this way, is the brief trailing thought, but that leads to the idea of feeling full, to the sexual connotations that could be drawn, and Kieren’s mind spirals up and beyond until he’s pathetic, gasping and groaning and trying to kiss Simon with every second that he doesn’t need to breathe, until the fire spreads across his skin and he’s coming into Simon’s hand, striping his own stomach, wetting Simon’s sweater.

It feels like time disappears, neither fast nor slow, spinning and yet hardly moving at all after that - all his nerves are almost painfully alight, and all he’s really aware of is that Simon’s hips are rolling into his moving hand, faster, until he comes too, with a groan that he lets out between the teeth he’s pinching Kieren’s bottom lip with.

That feels like almost - a second orgasm, the kind of depraved, proud rush that sweeps through him, knowing he’s made someone else come. He haphazardly wipes his hands on his clothes - nothing that can’t just get washed out, right - and then he’s using those hands to pull Simon as close as he can, for kisses, and kisses, and kisses, a month’s worth of them, and more, like getting in future kisses before he loses them.

It’s too early for fear of loss to set in, but it’s like a reflex for the loss of Rick, for the knowledge of what he knows about Simon, about the ULA, about Maxine and Victus. He buries his head against the rolled up neck of Simon’s sweater, briefly overwhelmed by everything.

Simon’s fingers are against his hair now, not quite tangled in them, fingertips mussing around in the length. “You alright?”

Kieren breathes in must, the smell of the dead, the smell of sex, and something stronger and sweeter above it all that is unique to the so-called redeemed, a smell like a rotten flower that came back to life again. 

“Yeah.” He lifts his head, looks Simon in the eye, nudging nose-to-nose. “I should take off my cover-up."


End file.
